


Three Times Wash Didn't Kiss Tucker (And One Time He Did)

by samslostshoe



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 11:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samslostshoe/pseuds/samslostshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>They were very close, breathing hard, straining against each other. Tucker had a black eye and a bruise had begun to flower on his cheek. Wash’s gaze was drawn from the black eye, swollen closed, to the eye that was open. It was kind of beautiful, actually: so light brown that it was almost gold. Tucker’s top lip was busted too, and bleeding, and his mouth was hanging open as he gasped for air. Wash couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to close the distance between them, to press his lips against Tucker’s. He wondered what Tucker might taste like. Blood, probably.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s when Tucker broke his grip and hit him in the eye.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by [the lovely coal](http://coalmoonpanic.tumblr.com/). 
> 
>  

The first time was during their training sessions. Wash decided that Tucker had to improve his hand-to-hand combat. The two of them had changed into civvies, because punching each other with their armor on could result in anything from minor concussions to death. Tucker was resistant to the idea— _“Why would I hit someone when I could stab them with my laser sword?”_ —but he came around when Wash offered him a break from training the next day.

Now he was standing opposite Wash on a level area of the canyon. The canyon they’d been stuck in with no hope of rescue for what seemed like years. He was wearing sweats and a tee shirt that matched his armor, and his tightly curled hair, usually loose around his face, was tied into a knot. He had his arms crossed petulantly.

“Tucker,” Wash implored, “arms up, please.”

Tucker reluctantly held his fists up in front of his face.

“Are we gonna do this, or—,” Tucker’s whining was cut off as Wash threw his first punch. “Jeez!” he protested, moving his hand so Wash’s fist glanced off it. Wash brought his other hand up and cuffed Tucker’s ear. “Dude, what the hell?” Tucker asked, rubbing his ear.

“You learn by doing,” Wash said. It sounded a little lame, so Wash threw another punch just to emphasize his point. Tucker blocked it again, and by now he was pissed off. He advanced on his commanding officer.

“What the fuck kind of _Art of War_ bullshit is that?” Tucker growled, his left fist swinging dangerously close to Wash’s eye. “You’re a special agent,” a firm blow to Wash’s shoulder, “not fucking Sun Tzu.” He hit Wash square in the gut.

Wash took off the metaphorical training wheels then. He had been holding back, wanting to figure out how much Tucker could handle. But Tucker was better than he’d expected. He had good instincts. And Wash wasn’t going to let himself get beaten up just to make Tucker feel good about himself.

Tucker was still able to hold his own, though. They sparred for a good five minutes, punching and blocking and starting their very own bruise collections. Somehow, Tucker got inside Wash’s guard and Wash had to grab his wrists to keep him from hitting him. They were very close, breathing hard, straining against each other. Tucker had a black eye and a bruise had begun to flower on his cheek. Wash’s gaze was drawn from the black eye, swollen closed, to the eye that was open. It was kind of beautiful, actually: so light brown that it was almost gold. Tucker’s top lip was busted too, and bleeding, and his mouth was hanging open as he gasped for air. Wash couldn’t help but think about how easy it would be to close the distance between them, to press his lips against Tucker’s. He wondered what Tucker might taste like. Blood, probably.

That’s when Tucker broke his grip and hit him in the eye.

 


	2. Chapter 2

The second time, they were fighting again, but with much less restraint than when they were sparring. They were standing very close, yelling at each other, words flying like punches and twice as painful. Tucker’s hair was wild, bits falling out of his bun, and his eyes were molten bronze with fury. He was gesticulating wildly, stabbing his finger in Wash’s face like a sword.

Wash, in contrast, kept his face stony, his voice cool and level. His hair was in a bit of a disarray—he kept running his hands through it agitatedly—but he thought he was succeeding in being an aloof leader.

Well, he said he was a “leader.” Tucker obviously didn’t think that was true.

“You’ve been nothing but terrible for us since you showed up, Wash,” he yelled. “First, you drag Caboose, Church, and the Reds all over the place looking for fucking relics. Then you get put in jail, and when you show up again it turns out you’re working with the guy who’s trying to kill us. You shot Donut, for fuck’s sake. And now you expect us to trust you?”

Wash didn’t respond.

“I mean,” Tucker continued, “from what Caboose tells me, you shot some chick who used to be your friend. How do we know you’re not gonna do the same thing to us?”

Wash didn’t respond. He felt as though every muscle in his body was tensed up. His jaw was clenched in an effort to stop himself from yelling back. He balled his fists, trying to refrain from hitting the man opposite him. His chest was tense, but for some reason, it wasn’t a hot, angry kind of tension. If Wash had to describe it, he might have called it nervous. He could hear his heart beating in his ears.

He was trying to resist the urge to get physical with Tucker. The thing was, he couldn’t tell if he wanted to push him up against the wall and smack him around, or push him up against the wall and kiss him until he was breathless.


	3. Chapter 3

The third time, he was half asleep. It had been a night like any other; Caboose had talked their ears off until Tucker had snapped at him to go to bed, and then turned in himself. Wash had made sure that everything was in order before retiring to his makeshift quarters and falling asleep.

Wash rarely slept through the night. He hadn’t been able to since everything that went down at Project Freelancer. He hadn’t been able to since his friends died. Though he would never admit to it, he felt guilty for every single one of their deaths. Especially South’s. He was safe from it during the day; he had training and managing Caboose and bickering with Tucker. But they haunted him at night in his dreams.

That night was particularly bad. In the dream, he was talking to Tucker about something unimportant. He was focused on Tucker’s face, on his gold eyes. Then, something caught his attention just behind Tucker’s right ear. When he looked up, South was grinning at him from ten feet away. As he watched, her face hardened and her lips drew into a frown. Then a streak of red appeared in her blonde hair, trickling down to drip onto her neck. Her attention was drawn away from Wash when she noticed it. She looked at it, mouth wide in curiosity and shock, fingers curiously running through her hair until she found the bullet hole that went clean through her skull. She turned and locked her wide, surprised gaze with Wash’s distressed one, and when she screamed it was shrill and piercing and the world broke around him.

Wash woke up screaming. He was shaking violently and his sheets were tangled around his body, soaked in sweat. He felt like he couldn’t move. He felt like someone was choking him, constricting his throat and making it hard to draw even the smallest of breaths. He tried desperately to get the sheets off, but he was too panicked and rushed.

Then there were calm hands helping him, and a soothing voice whispering, “Wash, it’s okay, I’ve got it.” He was freed from his sheets, thank God, and then the hands were on his face, cool and calming. The cold, surprisingly gentle touch calmed him down. He regulated his breathing until it returned to normal, and then focused on the figure at his bedside.

Tucker had a hand on either side of his face, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs. There was a worried crease between his eyebrows as he looked at Wash, whose expression, he was sure, still looked like a deer in the headlights. Wash thought that it must have been the first time he’d seen Tucker this serious.

Wash desperately wanted to kiss him.  He wanted to let Tucker calm him with his hands and his lips and his body, wanted to lose himself in the smell of his teammate.

But not like that. Not because he was vulnerable and needy and could coerce Tucker into it.

Instead, he reached forward and wrapped his arms desperately around Tucker. After a moment of hesitation, Tucker responded by putting one hand on the back of his neck and one on his back, which he rubbed up and down reassuringly. Wash closed his eyes. That was enough.

It was almost enough for forever.


	4. Chapter 4

Forever was kind of a whimsical concept, though. If there’s one thing Wash had learned, it was that forever never really works out. At least, not for him. The people he loved were never with him for long.

That’s what he thought about during his long months in captivity. That’s what he thought about when Locus was torturing him. That’s what he thought about at night when he doesn’t sleep. It haunted him. They all did.

He thought about Project Freelancer; about North, a gentle soul who was killed by the person he loved most in the world; about Tex, created to satisfy the crazy dreams of a lonely man; about Florida, the kindest person he’d ever met, who died unexpectedly and left the world worse off without him; about Wyoming, so hungry for power that he’d kill his own team; about Connie, who was just trying to do the right thing; about Carolina, wherever she was now; about York, who wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for Wash; about South, who he’d killed in cold blood; about Maine, who’d lost control of his mind and his body in the worst way possible.

And he thought about Tucker. Wash should have told him when he had the chance. He should have told him how much he meant. He should have told him that he was the first person he could consider calling his friend since Maine. He should have kissed him.

He wondered if Tucker was even looking for him. He doubted it.

He wondered if Tucker even cared.

The day it happened, he woke up to the sound of explosions and screams. The building shook. Yells and bullets flew through the air in equal amounts. And in the midst of it all was Tucker, cyan armor bright among the sea of New Republic soldiers he was leading. He was wielding his sword expertly, taking out enemies with ease and shouting commands to his squad.

They were clearly winning. The guards at this base were small in number and skill, and Tucker’s soldiers, as well as the rest of the reds and blues, were surprisingly disciplined. Felix was there too, and his ability was formidable.

Tucker broke off from the group when he spotted Wash in his cell, confident in their victory. Wash felt like he couldn’t breathe. Something was swelling inside him and blocking his airway. His chest felt tight. His eyes prickled.

Tucker stabbed viciously at the control pad for his cell. Wash heard the door unlock and it slid out of the way. Tucker was there at once, kneeling next to him, armored hands roaming over him, checking to see if he was okay.

Wash didn’t think. The reached up and pressed the release button on Tucker’s chin, pulling off his helmet. It was really him, Tucker: dark skin, gold eyes, hair pulled up out of the way, soft lips parted in surprise. It was really him.

Wash moved forward, as if in a daze, and brushed his lips against Tucker’s, gently. Tucker responded eagerly, placing his hands in Wash’s hair and kissing him back passionately, desperately, like he was trying to make up for all the months they had lost.

Wash wondered how he ever could have hesitated kissing Tucker. Now, with Tucker’s lips against his own, so solid and warm and _there_ , he knew he never would again.

 


End file.
